


bloodsteam

by cexies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, is there even a difference between those tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cexies/pseuds/cexies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real problem is from how heat pools into his stomach, fingers twitching for a reason to pull her close against him again: he doesn’t have to wait too long, because soon enough she’s moving to take another hit and he’s more excited about the prospect of kissing her again than getting high.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bloodsteam

Karkat isn’t sure how he agrees to Terezi’s suggestion; he has a general idea, and it may or may not include the inability to smother his less-than platonic feelings regarding her. The rest is built up of curiosity and peer pressure, two terrible combinations when you have a depressingly strong desire to fit in with everyone else around you. They don’t even mention their intentions for the first half of the day, casually playing video games and eating Chex Mix. Somewhere along the line Terezi grows bored with such activities, and their decadent behaviour begins. He still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of pretending that he’s as casual about this whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing as she is, chest tightening as their kisses change in nature. She nudges his mouth wider, tongue flicking over his lips until his body hums from nerves. As always, she doesn’t need to medicate him to achieve a state of intoxication—but if she wants to try anyway, then things can’t be totally dire; not if she keeps kissing like this.

"You okay?" Pulling back, her eyes squint down at him, scanning over whatever little she can make of his features. Even if she pushes and pulls him, every ten paces she’ll stop to regroup and check he’s keeping up: little tokens of affection that make his heart flutter like a 40’s housewife. On the other hand, 40’s housewives don’t take platonic kisses from their best friends, which is probably what this thing is. There’s no label on them past best friends, no matter how many times Terezi holds his hand or falls asleep in his bed. Maybe even this is something that friends do—coax their other friends into weed through kisses that make them swoon like a pathetic piece of shit. Maybe it’s even how Gamzee pulled Terezi and Vriska in the first place.

"We haven’t got all day Pyrope," he flatlines, swallowing as she laughs off his attitude. He can pretend to be a bigger man, but she always pierces through bravado. 

"Such a big boy," she teases, eyebrow raised into her trademark condescension. Still, she falls back and rummages around for something, Karkat watching curiously as she produces a real drug. A real drug in his house. His father is going to kill him because there is a drug and it is highly illegal, and yet he isn’t supposed to bring that part up—Terezi makes up her own rules about what is and isn’t acceptable, and today it seems that she has no problem with Gamzee’s habit. Her fingers are nimble with a lighter, proving that this is not the first, or last, time such shenanigans have occurred. Although he is not usually an advocate for such behaviour, Karkat can’t ignore the thankful influence of media into leading him to believe that Terezi actually looks a little cool with a joint: the thought prompts further reaffirmation that his whole thing is a terrible idea.

After taking care of herself, Terezi turns her attention to Karkat—taking a short drag before her lips are back on his again. Only this time it’s not just warmth—it’s literal smoke ticking the back of his throat and why the hell did Karkat ever think that he could pull off something so smooth. He splutters against her, hands pushing at her sides as she pulls back with a laugh. “Mmm Mr. Vantas, you certainly have a charm with the ladies,” Terezi teases, teeth flashing white as her hand rubs comforting circles into his shoulder. He tries to focus on the feel of her palm, throat burning with a terrible illusion that it might be bleeding. How Gamzee managed this at thirteen is a feat Karkat is suddenly in awe of, wondering if drugs are the same Stockholm routine of enjoying alcohol. His hesitation is only silenced by the body next to him, giggling to herself as she blows smoke. He has no idea what it looks like to her, but there’s a sneaking suspicion she’s still childish enough to be thinking of dragons. Maybe it can’t be all bad if Terezi’s so amused, and any happiness of hers seems to be worth risking throat cancer over.

Her giggling dies down as she catches him watching, head tilting to the side in thought. She’s a horror, a calculating predator who can read his every move and he is more than willing to let her. It’s disgusting how much he wants to kiss her again, to let her lick over the dips of his chewed lips until she gets bored and starts on his tongue. Such thoughts never get away from him, but the moment is growing intense and he can count every freckle on her cheek, all the way down to her skeletal little shoulders. How is this ever supposed to help someone enjoy the miracles of nature and life when someone as great as Terezi is alive and teasing his gormless expression with her hand on his knee. 

"Okay, I’m good."

"Don’t choke this time," she interrupts him with another laugh, taking another drag before pressing her closed lips against his open ones and slowly breathing out. Karkat inhales obediently, once again coughing—but at least there’s saving grace in not spluttering. The burning sensation is still there, but this time more dulled: as if he’s slowly becoming autonomous from it. The real problem is from how heat pools into his stomach, fingers twitching for a reason to pull her close against him again. He doesn’t have to wait too long, because soon enough she’s moving to take another hit and he’s more excited about the prospect of kissing her again than getting high. 

This time she doesn’t kiss him from his side, instead clambering onto his lap and doing it from face level. The muted burning seems to be a constant with the process, but Karkat swallows it down, instead rewarding himself by initiating a hesitant kiss back. A content sigh escapes Terezi before she takes back the tempo, pressing harder against him until they’re trading fevered kisses and Karkat forgets how to breathe—only remembering as she pulls apart, her own breathing noticeably faltered. She rests her forehead against his, the two of them breathing in what could be an endless silence. 

"God this stuff tastes like shit," he complains, prompting a laugh from Terezi. He likes that: likes the way the room fills up with like a melody as she consumes the space around them. The high starts to ebb in, blocking out the merging colours of her garish bedroom and instead intensifying his attention on his best friend. 

"You don’t buy it for taste," she sighs, long and elongated. "Maybe we should find the local drug lord: hey, my friend Karkat has issues with your supply. Please put some flavouring in this shit before he—." Whatever is next in Terezi’s scenario is cut off by her laughing again, elbows digging into his side as her body shakes in time with each puff of breath. Karkat can’t help but smirk with her, amused by the way her nose crinkles as she snorts to herself. Maybe he’s discovered the perfect nose, who is he to know? Terezi shifts all of a sudden, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. There’s a light press against his neck, so quick that Karkat isn’t sure if he imagined it or not. 

"What are you doing?"

Terezi doesn’t answer, instead replying with a hum against his ear. The sound seems to reverberate through his body, as if she’s taken up space inside him—for all Karkat knows, she could have. Her arms wind around his neck while her legs clamp over his waist: mirroring an attractive monkey. The thought is somehow amusing, even though sober he’d try to kill his past self for even thinking something so stupid, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that his pulse is now her pulse, and that her breath coats his neck like an extra layer of skin. Everything would be so much more tolerable if she could stay this way forever, melding against his clothes so that he can have comfort whenever he needs it—which seems to be always. 

"Sleeping."

"You can’t sleep on my shoulder," he sighs into her hair, the sound much higher in intonation compared to usual. All he gets in reply is a shrug, but even that feels nice. It’s like every little action she makes is rippled across his skin, goosebumps raising as the temptation to kiss her like he wants to flares up over and over. His hands fidget until they settle on her waist, amazed by how much of her shirt is just air in comparison to how much body occupies it.

"Your shirt is so big."

"Yeah."

"It’s like half of you is in it."

She pulls away from his shoulder slowly, with a smile on her face that should probably be a grin—but he’s sure he can overlook how soft her face looks, just this once. ”Technically half of me is in it. The other half is in my jeans.”

"Well, this experience is opening up hidden depths."

"You’re soooo weird. This was a terrible mistake! Who on earth gets high and talks about my preference for lose-fitting clothes? Plus," she slurs slightly, distracted by the new task she’s set herself of pushing her hands underneath his sweater. "I could fit five of me in here. Ten even. No. Fifty." Her accuracy is either subtly on par, or accidentally under. Her fingers bunch up the under shirt under his sweater, skin meeting skin as they push up-towards his midriff. Her hands are hot and cold at once, weighing heavy on the cotton of his mind. 

"I can’t deal with fifty Terezis, please don’t do that," Karkat pleads in all seriousness, the thought of one Terezi is enough to scare him into sobriety—let alone forty-nine more. She laughs again, hands twitching in response. He tries to breathe out quietly, although the concept of volume is something that blurs and mixes with his wavering attention. 

"I bet I could convince you there’s fifty of me if you got high enough."

"Please," he repeats again, his own fingers tightening on her waist as her hands press harder against his stomach. The conversation shifts meanings in his mind, windpipe crushing itself as Terezi strokes her palm back over his stomach. She feels so unbearably far away, even though she’s right there on his lap and almost-staring him out. Such facts don’t seem to stick in his mind, desperately wanting to melt against her but always too hesitant to make such moves. Luckily, Terezi always takes such moves and she draws closer to him—stopping short of directly kissing him as she lets her lips rest against his. 

"Hi," she whispers, giving him no time to reply before her lips fully press against his. They move slowly against one another this time, dizzy heat slowly making its way onto Karkat’s face as he feels it creep down Terezi’s. She’s so twisted and pretty that it makes his head hurt, fingers pulling too hard against her waist as he brings her closer. She obliges willingly, tipping forwards until her chest is against his and Karkat is sure that he can feel both blood supplies merging into one—heavy thumps that almost drown out how her breathing matches his. 

Unfortunately his balance isn’t at its best and the wall that was once supporting him seems to be slipping away as they end up falling onto the bed in slow motion. Karkat flails about as they plummet five inches, Terezi simply clinging to his neck with a vice grip. Falling isn’t all that bad once they hit the bed again, limbs entangling into a mess that could easily fool someone into thinking they had become an octopus. Terezi’s legs wrap around his thigh as her hands push back up his sweater—pulling him closer and closer until he just about suffocates on the polyester of her disgusting dragon-print shirt. 

Her head buries into the crook of his neck as they lie there, too warm to move with the room too soft to make room for speech. Her hair smells like cheap L’Oréal—the kind that comes in the bottle that looks like a fish and it’s so Terezi that his heart swells from the privileged of knowing someone who is twenty different kinds of fucked up. He goes to hold her hand but gets distracted on the way, marvelling at how her wristbone sticks out like a perfect circle—her joints clear to be mapped out over the press of his fingers. His thumb ends up settling on her pulse, even more amazed that her veins feel like tiny violent strings when she flexes against him. Every part of her is a metaphor for some other beautiful wonder of life and it’s so intimidating to be so close to her, as if he’s never known how to breath without the puffs of air against his neck reminding him that there’s a cycle and he wishes there was a way to tell her this but it’s like a secret that catches in his throat and burns fiercer than any joint could. So instead he listens to the pulse of her wrist, eyes unfocused on the blur of colours behind them as he tries not to focus on the million things he wishes he could.

At least with Terezi, there’s always a next time.


End file.
